


The Pier Is Where We Say Goodbye

by CrowWhite



Category: Monkey Island
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7085530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowWhite/pseuds/CrowWhite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgan LeFlay reveals her secret: DeSinge wasn't the person who ordered her to capture Guybrush Threepwood. But who was that mysterious client? Guybrush is in for a serious shock...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pier Is Where We Say Goodbye

 

The Pier Is Where We Say Goodbye

 

 

Chapter 1

 

The sun was setting peacefully. “The Howler Monkey”, Coronado de Cava’s legendary ship that took him on the voyage to seek La Esponja Grande, was once again trapped inside a giant manatee deep beneath the Caribbean Sea. With the fabled sponge stuffed safely in his pocket, its new owner Guybrush Threepwood was now free to sail back to his wife Elaine who was currently helping the reformed ex-pirate LeChuck on his nature protection project. As Guybrush jokingly put it, “I’ve got a wife and arch-nemesis to return to.”

 

“Those are two different persons, or one and the same?” LeFlay inquired sarcastically.

 

There were three of them aboard “The Screaming Narwhal”: Threepwood himself, old seadog Van Winslow the first mate, and the bounty huntress Morgan LeFlay. The latter was the reason why Threepwood now sported a metal hook where his left hand used to be: a fortnight previously, LeFlay got onto his ship, unseen and unheard, drew a clean cut with her sword and was off with his hand. It took her no more than three minutes. She didn’t lie when she said she was a professional.

 

Later on, LeFlay tracked the ship down again and was about to murder Guybrush just as “The Screaming Narwhal” was swallowed up whole by the giant manatee. However, the huntress didn’t stop even there: she fought on until knocked out cold by a loose barrel. Both men gave a sigh of relief.

 

Only then, as she lay helplessly on the floor, her face relaxed and her features suddenly softened, was the first time that Guybrush saw her for who she really was: a little girl playing pirates. Did he seriously address her as “woman”? She couldn’t be much over eighteen.

 

LeFlay proved invaluable as Threepwood made his way through the manatee to break free. She impersonated his “spouse” for the jealousy-infatuated De Cava with such charm and allure that the old crook released them straight away. True: she exasperated Guybrush to madness with her sarcasm, but in the end it was she who handled the hostile pirates and freed him from the wooden cage.

 

Funny how these things happen. Threepwood stood on deck watching the waves. As the quest was nearing its end, he was actually sorry to part with LeFlay. She was fun, exciting and smart, and— and—

 

And she was nothing like Elaine.

 

Guybrush shuddered to imagine what having his wife here instead of LeFlay would be like. Elaine would boss him around, make snide comments about his actions — or IMPROPER actions, or LACK of actions, for that matter. Her shrewdness was infinite. Of course, one doesn’t get to become a Governor by being nice to everybody. Elaine was tough. “Let’s just be friends,” she shouted to the then-demon LeChuck in mock concern as she peppered him with cannonballs. That was tough. Sadistic, even.

 

Once, as the Threepwoods rowed about household routines and Elaine’s extended hours, she went for the “Guybrush Ulysses Threepwood” again. “I hate it when you call me that!” he snapped. “You sound like you’re my MOM!”

 

“Sometimes I feel like I AM!” she shouted back. The bitterness in her tone struck him. He’d gotten used to her angry outbreaks, her flying off the handle about unimportant matters. But this was—

 

“Penny for your thoughts!” said a voice next to him.

 

“Yikes!” He winced.

 

Morgan rolled her eyes. “It’s front office Threepwood written all over your face.”

 

“Don’t speak so of Elaine,” Guybrush said tersely. He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. He should have come up with a joke, should have kept things light. But LeFlay had hit a nerve.

 

“We’re approaching land,” she spoke seriously. “We’ll be at Jerkbait Island port tomorrow, if the wind persists.”

 

“If the wind’s as persistent as you are—” This time, Guybrush was prepared to joke easily, but LeFlay interrupted him: “Oh Threepwood, for once just shut up and listen!”

 

What is it with women yelling at me, Guybrush wondered?

 

“There’s something you should know,” Morgan went on in a strangely uneasy manner. The look on her face was a combination of regret and panic. Something in her tone of voice made Threepwood instantly alert.

 

“Remember why I attacked you the first time?” she said quickly.

 

“How can I forget. You wanted my hand, that is, DeSinge wanted my hand and hired you—”

 

“Exactly. And why I returned?”

 

“Because the mad doctor wanted the rest of the body?”

 

“That’s what I told you back then, yeah,” LeFlay replied. “But this,” she went on with more and more dismay in her voice, “this is not true. DeSinge didn’t hire me.”

 

“So you just came and fought me out of your own accord?” Guybrush said in an attempt to take some of the heat off.

 

“I WAS contracted,” Morgan said crossly. “But not by DeSinge.”

 

Holy Mackerel, Threepwood muttered to himself. That was news.

 

“Who then?” he said aloud. And why is she so shaken about it? Whoever it was—

 

“Your wife,” LeFlay blurted out and, seeing the expression on his face, continued in a flurry of words, “You’ve got to believe me! I have proof! Just listen—”

 

“I’m not listening to a bunch of crud,” Threepwood spat as he turned away to leave.

 

“THINK!” Morgan yelled. “You were on the open sea when I attacked and the only ship in the vicinity was Elaine’s! I was on that ship with her! I couldn’t have breaststroked all the way from Flotsam or Brillig Island, now could I?!”

 

“Stop this baboonery,” Threepwood snapped as he walked away.

 

“Just REMEMBER!” she shouted to his back. “The second time I got ‘ere? In the middle of them bleedin’ manatee matin’ grounds!” A slight accent laced her speech as she grew angrier. “I been on board all along e’r since ya pulled off from the Jerkbait Island pier!”

 

Too loud. Threepwood didn’t want Van Winslow to hear this nonsense. He seized LeFlay by the shoulders and shook her fiercely.

 

“Stop this,” he hissed into her face. “I have no idea why you want to make a fool of yourself but—”

 

“I’m tellin’ the truth,” LeFlay panted, glaring at him. “And you know it’s true because there ain’t none other explanation, and you’ve gotten all mad, and you’re tearin’ me jacket.”

 

Threepwood didn’t notice the sound of cloth tearing. His hook was dug deeply into her arm. Withdrawing, he thought that he’d never actually given much thought — none, in fact — to how she’d got onto “The Screaming Narwhal”. Both times it was afloat, miles and miles away from solid land. LeFlay’s first attack was in broad daylight. She couldn’t have approached by any vessel, even a small boat; they’d have her spotted right away. The only way possible was swimming from a nearby ship... and the only ship within swimming distance was Elaine’s.

 

Threepwood frowned.

 

“How did you get on board?” he asked point-blank.

 

“I’m tellin’ ya,” LeFlay replied crossly. “I was on her ship — YOUR ship, in fact — with Elaine and LeChuck.”

 

This was odd. How could she have known about Elaine and LeChuck stuck on Guybrush’s own ship after the Cutlass-of-Kaflu incident?

 

“And?”

 

“And we were circling around the Rock of Gelato—”

 

That WE sounded very odd. We: meaning her, Elaine and LeChuck? What the hell?

 

“—waiting for you—”

 

“Hang on,” Guybrush interrupted impatiently, “and the manatee mating grounds? How did you—”

 

“I was on board all along. I hid in the cargo hold during provision load at the Jerkbait Island port.”

 

“You couldn’t. Winslow and I were supervising the whole thing—”

 

“—except for when Elaine came to distract you?” LeFlay finished. “I’ve no idea what she told you, but she promised it’ll work. And it did. You gawped at her, and I made a run.”

 

Elaine promised it’ll work? As the meaning of it all began to sink in on Threepwood, his eyes stared, unseeing, at the waves tinted purple by the sinking sun. He remembered his utter bewilderment at what Elaine said at the harbor: I’m not coming with you, I’m staying here to keep an eye on LeChuck. And Van Winslow must have had his nose in the maps, as usual, to notice anyone slip into the ship.

 

Threepwood came out of his reverie to hear what was probably LeFlay’s story continued:

 

“—and you should have seen LeChuck! All the hand-kissing and the flowers and the courteous mannerisms—”

 

Threepwood would never have believed it, had he not seen it with his own eyes. The array of Old World endearments, when displayed by LeChuck, looked sordid and pathetic — but what made it really alarming was that Elaine didn’t seem to mind it at all. As Van Winslow put it, “it looked like a cheerful friendly moment”. So, Guybrush thought, it isn’t me imagining things. Others noticed it, too.

 

Threepwood looked at Morgan, brooding.

 

“Are you trying to say,” he uttered slowly, “that Elaine hired you to— sent you to—”

 

“Yes,” LeFlay retorted. She was collected and calm again. Her eyes didn’t quail before his. “Your wife had hired me to kill you. And unless I’m very much mistaken, the spot in her heart will not remain vacant for long. If anything, it’s already occupied”. She hesitated and added, “Elsewhere.”

 

It was impossible to believe it. But LeFlay named a million things an outsider just wouldn’t know. She described Elaine and the ship in precise detail. She knew about the wooden nickels. It was Guybrush’s and Elaine’s family joke no stranger was ever let in on. LeFlay knew about LeChuck hanging around Elaine like a lovesick bull. LeFlay knew about the monkeys, the cutlass, the rootbeer, the rootgrog, and lots of other things. True: the accursed explosion could have been seen or heard from afar; but these were the details known only to Guybrush, Elaine and LeChuck. And then there was LeFlay’s attack in broad daylight.

 

Sinister and disastrous, but so precise, so sensible— But how could she— But—

 

“I, uh,” Threepwood forced himself to speak, hardly realizing what he was saying. “I must— be—”

 

He walked off mechanically. LeFlay watched him flee into his cabin.

 

The sun disappeared below the horizon. The shadows were closing in.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

The moon was too damn bright tonight. As Guybrush lay staring at the ceiling of the captain’s cabin, he was trying to convince himself to start thinking, to brainstorm, to work out a plan (and then maybe a plan B) — but his thoughts kept returning to Elaine, Elaine’s betrayal, Elaine who chose another over him, Elaine who hired that little fool of a girl to hunt him down. His heart was beating like a heavy drum. Elaine. Betrayal. Fool.

 

It all made perfect sense. This was precisely the solution Elaine could have come up with. Why divorce and have your private affairs scrutinized by the press, and risk the ex-husband selling stories and having their dirty linen washed in public? Better be an “inconsolable widow” and imply that “the home island was all she had left now...” Her career would certainly flourish. And her choice of LeFlay as the perpetrator was clever, too. No one would believe an 18-year-old, should the mercenary ever blab after the job was done. And no one would take the girl seriously, should she try to warn him. Threepwood himself didn’t take her seriously — at first. Elaine would not have hired a seasoned hatchet-man. The teenage adventuress was her perfect shot.

 

Elaine. Betrayal. Fool.

 

Threepwood knew he had to shut off his misery for now, he had to think, and fast. What was he going to do? Two hours previously, he commanded Van Winslow to strike down the sails. “The Screaming Narwhal” was now being rocked by the waves as she lay motionless on the open sea. It was the only clever thing Threepwood could come up with. He needed to win some time till he could come to his senses and start thinking.

 

Elaine. Betrayal. Fool.

 

There was a knock on the door. LeFlay, of course; who else could it be? Guybrush resisted the urge to slam the door in her face.

 

“Go away,” he said flatly.

 

“I’m not bloody going a—”

 

He closed the door. The next moment, LeFlay broke in.

 

“You’ve got to listen to me!” she bellowed. “I know what we can do!”

 

That WE sounded so childish.

 

There were two candles lit in the cabin: on the bureau and on the table. Threepwood gestured at a chair. LeFlay remained on her feet. “Sit,” he said wearily as he sank into the chair opposite.

 

Morgan got straight to business:

 

“Do you even understand WHY I accepted this job, in the first place?” she demanded, eyeing him sharply across the table. “Do you understand why I chirped ‘Yep sure I’ll murder my— I’ll murder Guybrush Threepwood’? Do you?”

 

She paused.

 

“Go on,” Guybrush said.

 

“If I refused, she’d hire someone else. And you’d be surely done for.” Morgan’s eyes shone with determination. “I took this job and I was happy as a sea-pig because thus I could spare you your life!”

 

Guybrush looked at her, the anguish in his eyes now laced with interest.

 

“Anyone in the mercenary guild would do ya in without a backw’rd glance.” Her voice trembled as she finished the phrase. A slight accent surfaced in her speech again. She was on edge.

 

And she was right, Threepwood knew it. Elaine’s plan was lethal. Only his unfathomable luck could explain why he was still alive. On second thought, however—

 

Guybrush looked closely at Morgan’s anxious face. Little fool of a girl as she might be, but SHE, not luck, was the reason why he was still alive. And he, mighty goddamn pirate, took it for granted? She certainly deserved of gratitude.

 

“Morgan,” Threepwood reached across the table and took her hand. “Thank you. Thanks for sparing my life.”

 

She froze. Her eyes travelled down the arm as if to make sure that it really was true: her idol’s hand squeezing her fingers.

 

This made Threepwood smile. His first sincere smile ever since all this nightmare began earlier today... yesterday, in fact. A glance at the clock told him it was early hours of the morning.

 

“Oh-kay,” Guybrush said, trying to sound business-like. “That’s enough trouble for one day. Good-night, LeFlay. We’ll thi— I’ll think of something tomorrow.”

 

He stood up, causing Morgan to follow him. Exhaustion was beginning to weigh him down. As soon as he saw Morgan off his quarters, he’d—

 

“LeFlay?”

 

She stood rooted to the spot.

 

“What’s—”

 

“I said,” she uttered crisply and curtly, “I’m not. Bloody. Going. Anywhere.”

 

Her eyes sparkled like gems. She tightened her grip on his hand. She looked frighteningly tense, like a spring all wound-up and ready to unleash.

 

“I’m—” Her voice cracked. She looked like she could burst into tears if Guybrush didn’t react.

 

Holy Mackerel. An outburst on board was the last thing he wanted. It was as troubling as it was untimely. At the same time, Threepwood felt genuinely sorry for LeFlay. A little girl messing with powers far beyond her own. Hers, not Guybrush’s, was the hopeless situation. Little girl...

 

“Come here,” Threepwood said faintly.

 

Morgan embraced him before he finished the word. She was still clutching his hand, so he had only his hook arm free to wrap around her shoulders — carefully this time, so as not to cut her again. He will hold her for a moment or two till she regains self-composure and then she will go.

 

Suddenly, Guybrush realized that his mind-numbing exhaustion was gone. Morgan’s embrace was warm and reassuring. For the first time in what seemed ages Threepwood felt there was someone on his side. He wasn’t alone, at last.

 

“Guh–Guybrushhhh...” she exhaled into his neck.

 

That felt good. That sounded good, too. Earlier, she addressed him only as “Threepwood”, or “Captain”, or “Mr. Mighty Pirate”. Guybrush had no idea he’d be so pleased to hear her say his name at last.

 

For once today, things were starting to look up.

 

“Hey Morgan!” he exclaimed in his old cheerful manner, as buoyancy and excitement took over him. “Shiver me timbers, who’s a pretty bird— I mean— Want to check me for scurvy?”

 

She gave a vivacious laugh.

 

“Whatever your command is, Cap’n Guybrush,” she retorted slyly as he leaned in to kiss her.

 

 

***

 

That night Morgan said his name a hundred times, or so it seemed — Guybrush lost track. His name was the last thing she whispered before falling asleep on his chest. Even in her slumber, Morgan held Guybrush tightly in her arms. Curiously, her right arm felt more muscular than the left. Swordplay and fencing do that to your arm, once you’ve bared your sword many-a-time. The “Gus” tattoo on her left shoulder was slightly skewed: it was probably done when her limbs were still growing, and stretched. Little girl... How old could she be? He knew she’d never tell him if he asked.

 

Threepwood ran his hand along her spine. Morgan was in love with him; there was no doubt about it. She couldn’t be THAT giving, THAT gentle otherwise. Her teenage crush... Morgan... Little girl...

 

Threepwood yearned to wake her, to see her smile at him, to admire the gleam of her eyes in the moonlight. Little girl, so overwhelmed. And so sincere. She couldn’t get enough of him. She liked everything about him. She loved him for what he was.

 

So unlike Elaine...

 

Morgan was fast asleep and couldn’t hear Threepwood’s pulse begin to pound, although her ear rested against his chest, mere inches from his heart.

 

“The Screaming Narwhal” was being rocked by the sea. All was still.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

God bless Van Winslow.

 

If there was one seafarer Threepwood could rely upon, it was his chief mate. Van Winslow held the ship steady, precisely as the captain had commanded the night before. As Threepwood got onto the deck the next morning, the chief mate asked no questions.

 

The overdose of bliss in Threepwood’s veins diluted the pupils of his eyes. The sun seemed too bright. He squinted at Van Winslow as they exchanged greetings, and asked the question that worried him most: how much freshwater do we have left?

 

As the chief mate left to inspect the galley water kegs, Guybrush stood at the wheel, thinking — or rather, not thinking but taking in everything around him. The sapphire-blue waters, the cool breeze, the piny smell of tar rising from the warm, wet riggings. Everything seemed larger than life. Brighter. Better.

 

Seafarers quickly learnt to “forget” the ocean, to truly not notice the sound of the waves and the wind — just like people living close to waterfalls gradually became oblivious of the roar of the falling water. But this was different. This was as if Threepwood suddenly pulled a plug from his ear — and a gust of sounds rushed in. Why didn’t he notice any of this before? What did he see when he looked at the waves yesterday? Or the day before?

 

Or during all these years spent with Elaine?

 

“Captain, sir!” Van Winslow’s voice diverted Threepwood from his reverie. (God bless him for that, too.)

 

“Two kegs of freshwater, sir.”

 

“Two,” Threepwood repeated. “Not bad. Though I’d’ve thought we had more than that.”

 

“As did I, sir, as did I.” Van Winslow sounded disappointed. “Shoulda know we’d run out of water sooner, the extra man on board and all.”

 

“Woman,” Guybrush corrected him absentmindedly. He was deep in thought about what to do next.

 

“Which means,” he thought aloud, “that we can lay afloat for — how long? Two weeks?”

 

“Aye, sir. Perhaps longer.” Van Winslow waited for the captain to command. But the latter took longer than usual to make up his mind. Finally, Guybrush said: “Give me an hour, Mr. Winslow,” and went off.

 

There was one last person he wanted to speak to. If anyone at all could make head or tail of this mayhem, it was The Voodoo Lady.

 

 

***

 

Threepwood grabbed the locket. The dull golden pendant was very heavy, even for a piece made of pure metal. Its polished surface was cold to the touch, but seemed to vibrate with inner energy as Threepwood opened it like a book. Its two golden semis resembled the wings of a giant scarab, each bearing a picture: The Voodoo Lady’s on the left and Threepwood’s own, on the right.

 

Guybrush turned the arrow to point at The Voodoo Lady’s portrait, then pressed it. Immediately the reality around him bled, faded and finally morphed into the familiar interior of The Voodoo Lady’s shack: damp, dark and heavy with the smell of herbs and amber, the fire burning, the crystal ball reflecting the flames, magic and mystery penetrating the air. Threepwood looked at his hands. They were dark and smelled of herbs and amber. He was The Voodoo Lady.

 

Then he realized that although this method was good for impersonating The Lady for De Singe and her own Tarot cards, it couldn’t help for the task at hand: to actually speak to The Voodoo Lady. What was he going to do?

 

Guybrush contemplated his options. He thought it best to write a message and leave it on The Lady’s desk. Once he leaves her body, she’ll regain consciousness and read it. Then, she’ll write her response, and when Guybrush repossesses her body again, he’ll be able to read it, write some more, and so on. It was exceedingly inconvenient and time-consuming, but Threepwood couldn’t think of any other way.

 

There was no paper on the desk. Threepwood rummaged through the drawers, searching for quills, or paper, or pencil, or indeed anything that could leave impressions. As he opened the drawers one by one, he found several more decks of cards, a few rainbow-colored pouches filled with something light and crumbly, candles, more candles, amulets, vials, dried bones... One drawer was brim-full of little voodoo dolls. As Guybrush pulled the drawer open, all the dolls opened their eyes simultaneously. “Yikes,” he muttered, hastily shutting the drawer. But then curiosity got hold of him. Guybrush pulled the drawer just enough to make out the dolls’ faces inside. Their eyes were closed. Guybrush pulled the drawer halfway. Their lids lifted halfway. Guybrush quickly pulled the drawer out. All the dolls were now staring at him, their round eyes wide open. “This is creepy feel’n,” thought Threepwood as he continued scanning through the desk. A miniature stuffed peacock with a few dozen pins stuck into its back, forming an open tail. A bamboo flute. A handful of pieces of eight. A cat-skull-shaped hand grip for a walking cane. (Threepwood preferred to think it was a real skull, although it could easily be carved ivory.) An ornate metal mirror. A glimpse into its silvery depth revealed the smiling face of The Voodoo Lady.

 

It felt downright odd to be looking into a mirror and seeing a face of a completely different person looking back at you. Even more odd was the fact that, in contrast to his hazy reflection, Guybrush wasn’t smiling at all.

 

This was interesting.

 

Threepwood felt slightly awkward as he squinted a Nasty Cross-eyed Monkey face into the mirror. The Voodoo Lady in the mirror smiled wider, but her expression was nothing like the pirate faceoff Guybrush was sporting.

 

“Err... ” he began.

 

“The spirits tell me you wish to speak to me, Guybrush Threepwood.” The Voodoo Lady’s lips were moving, and her voice seemed to emerge from the inside of the mirror.

 

“Neat!” Threepwood exclaimed, raising the mirror at a better angle. “I was going to ask you—”

 

“The cards have foretold me that you seek direction,” The Voodoo Lady interrupted. Her voice was low and important.

 

Guybrush nodded.

 

“It’s about my wife,” he said hastily. He didn’t know how long the rapport with The Voodoo Lady would last. “I don’t know where she is and—”

 

“Your wife Elaine is on Melee Island, my child,” The Voodoo Lady retorted. “But be warned: I sense there’s been a significant change in her.”

 

“What kind of change??”

 

“I have no need to tell you what you already know, Guybrush Threepwood,” replied The Voodoo Lady.

 

Threepwood frowned. Jealousy and bitterness rose in him like a wave. It couldn’t be helped. Like a compass needle, his mind pointed in only one direction.

 

“Is she...” he began, his voice harsh and constrained, “is she there with... LeChuck??”

 

The Voodoo Lady smiled.

 

“You’ve never been a seer, my child. But truly important things are the things you can see with your heart. Like I said, you don’t need me to tell you what you already know.”

 

I take it as a yes, Guybrush thought. He was silent for a moment. Then he heard himself ask:

 

“Is she happy?”

 

The three words came without his meaning them to be.

 

“You’ll see soon enough, my child,” The Voodoo Lady said serenely.

 

Suddenly, Guybrush was looking at his own reflection. It took him a moment or two to realize he was staring not in the mirror, but at his own portrait in the golden locket. The magic had worn off, the rapport lost. He was back on “The Screaming Narwhal”, desperate, crestfallen, broken... Angry, fuming, and hungry for action.

 

If something could be done, he’d do it. Now.

 

Threepwood took a deep breath.

 

“Mr. Winslow!” he shouted. “Make way for Melee Island!”

 

The first mate was happy to follow a command given in so swashbucklingly boisterous a manner.

 

“Aye-aye, captain!” Van Winslow saluted with a jerk of his arm outward.

 

The rubber-tree mast groaned aloud when the sail took wind. Starboarding, Van Winslow whistled a merry tune. He loved the ship. She had outrun storms and pirates, and even on Flotsam Island, having lost all hope to ever hit water again, Van Winslow took good care of “The Screaming Narwhal”, scrubbing her deck and awnings, mending the sails and pennants, maintaining all hatches and firearms and deck buckets at their best. And what do you know? That lucky bastard of a captain managed to reverse the winds so they could sail again! And “The Screaming Narwhal” is braving storms, and Van Winslow is happy, and they're sailing to Melee Island, and the adventure continues, because the captain has a new plan.

 

God bless him for that.

 

 

Chapter 4

 

LeFlay bit Threepwood’s ear lightly.

 

“She’ll kill you,” the huntress whispered as she kissed Guybrush along the jawline. “And I’ll lose you forever.” She covered his lips with her fingertips. “What can I do to make you stay? Away from her,” she added quickly.

 

Guybrush held the back of her neck.

 

“I must see Elaine,” he said in a calm but firm voice. “I won’t be at peace until I speak to her.”

 

They sailed all day, covering half the distance to Melee Island. Van Winslow’s genius never failed to delight in overcoming a challenge. None other could have better understood the winds, the wave drag, the swell. The chief mate once tried explaining to Threepwood his self-developed wind pattern theory — which worked for Van Winslow, but to Guybrush seemed like magic and mumbo-jumbo. Speaking of magic... The unusually supportive navigating conditions could also have been orchestrated by The Voodoo Lady. She always helped him out.

 

LeFlay worked like a regular ABS all day. She was less talkative (and thus, less sarcastic, which was definitely an improvement). But during the dark before moonrise, she came to say something that visibly troubled her ever since she learnt they were on course to Melee Island.

 

“She’ll kill you.” Morgan rubbed her cheek against Threepwood’s palm, then kissed the heel of his hand.

 

“Did it ever occur to you,” Threepwood asked slowly, “that she might want to kill you, as well? You’re a witness, Mo. A dangerous one.”

 

Morgan fell silent. The idea was evidently new to her.

 

“You’re trying to scare me off,” she said at last.

 

I wish I was, thought Guybrush.

 

“But surely we don’t have to risk everything like that?” Morgan went on, looking him straight in the eyes. “Since we both happen to be in danger, we can go into hiding? How about Toxic Island? Besides, you once offered me an exciting swashbuckling opportunity! Sail together, see the world, just you and me, looting and pillaging throughout the Caribbean?”

 

She was smirking as she said it, but her voice was full of hope.

 

“A perfect plan!” said Guybrush. “If we make it alive past Elaine, I’ll rob an entire archipelago for you!”

 

Morgan gave him a sour look.

 

“OR,” Threepwood went on with mock enthusiasm, “you can rob an archipelago for me? OR, we can rob an archipelago together and donate to feral monkey conservation—”

 

Morgan sighed and got to her feet.

 

“Good night, Captain,” she said as she headed towards the door.

 

Threepwood couldn’t imagine spending that last night without Morgan. He needed her near him. He had to make her stay.

 

The idea came as a sudden inspiration.

 

“Good night, Mo,” he said lazily, rubbing his neck, pretending to look tired. “Oh, just one last thing...”

 

“Listening,” she said as she held the doorknob, without turning her head.

 

“Your accent,” said Threepwood.

 

LeFlay looked at him over her shoulder, uncomprehendingly.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“When you get angry, you speak with an accent. But I can’t quite place it... Is it Creole? Cajun?”

 

Morgan looked completely stunned.

 

“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” she gasped in amazement. “How could you notice— It’s—”

 

“Ha! Whose wit is twice as sharp as his sword?” Threepwood struck his “star” pose, hand on his hip with the hook pointing at his chest.

 

“You mean to say you listened to HOW I spoke? What I said and how I said??” Morgan cried out. “So you really DO care for me, and don’t you dare deny that! The accent— No one ever paid attention— _I_ never paid attention—”

 

As she flung herself into his arms and kissed every inch of his face, Threepwood thought contentedly that his wit was, quite possibly, THRICE as sharp as his sword.

 

 

***

 

Threepwood thought of Morgan as he absentmindedly ran his fingers through her disobedient hair. “Disobedient” hair... Morgan was “disobedient”, too. Headstrong. Zealous. And she got what she wanted — and WHO she wanted. She got him — her childhood hero. Her teenage idol.

 

Threepwood couldn’t suppress a chortle. Morgan stirred in her sleep, and Guybrush held his breath. He didn’t want to wake her.

 

The huntress knew all about him, while he only met her a couple of weeks previously. Yet, he felt strangely connected to Morgan, as if he’d known her for ages. He was sure she’d enjoy the things he enjoyed. He could easily see her sitting by a campfire in the jungle, the sounds of the wilderness echoing around, or hunting for turtle eggs in the sand, or rowing untamed streams to discover hidden waterfalls.

 

A campfire in the jungle... Guybrush could almost sense the smoky smell of prawn chowder cooked PROPERLY: over open flame. When was the last time he had one? Ten years ago? Nine? Once, just once he took Elaine on a trip to the jungle. She wasn’t thrilled, to put it mildly. They never went again and neither did he.

 

Morgan was breathing evenly. What was it about her that stirred him so deeply, chowder and all? However, the answer was simple: she was exactly like himself ten years ago.

 

He used to have a dream. He went to painstaking lengths to prove he was deserving of being a pirate. He didn’t ponder much on whether or not he had what it takes — he just went and did what had to be done. He started with nothing but a ridiculous name, and he won ships, and gold, and fame, and a wonderful wife.

 

What a convenient lie. It was Elaine who won him. Well, not so much won — she just informed him she liked him, and they hit it off right away. There was no conquest, no flirt, no chase. She chose him. A lapdog. A plaything.

 

Threepwood marveled at his own indifference. Morgan’s breathing rhythm was soothing and made him dozy. He yawned.

 

Before, Threepwood thought that to Morgan he was nothing but a prize. He would imagine that all she wanted was to have his name on her “triumphal wreath”. Trying to distract her from cutting Van Winslow’s throat just before the manatee swallowed their ship, Threepwood put it baldly: join me, let’s sail together, looting and pillaging in every harbor. Back then, Morgan didn’t seem to give the matter even a passing thought. But turns out she remembered. She called his bluff. The only question remained, was he bluffing at all...

 

We can go into hiding, she said. That WE sounded so hopeful...

 

To Elaine, he’d been a plaything... Was he more than a plaything to Morgan?... And what... what if...

 

But he was asleep before this train of thought reached its end.

 

 

Chapter 5

 

“The Screaming Narwhal” was approaching land. Through the early morning mist, Threepwood could already discern the familiar landscape: the Mail Boat in the harbor, the Scumm Bar next to the docks, the tops of the church and the circus. The legendary lookout point was hiding somewhere up in the forest-covered mountains.

 

Threepwood stood at the prow of the ship, listening and looking at the approaching land with stern intensity. Van Winslow didn’t let him near the wheel. The look on the captain’s face was alarmingly intimidating. The man was too absorbed and impatient to steer properly.

 

“The Screaming Narwhal” came to a full stop. Threepwood and LeFlay jumped onto the dock with the ropes and wrapped them around the posts. The signal lanterns along the pier looked pale in the light of the sunrise.

 

Threepwood didn’t say a word and neither did Morgan. She simply followed him down the harbor and into town, past the prison, through the arch, towards the Governor’s mansion.

 

The old white stone building where Threepwood’s career as a pirate began a decade previously, stood peaceful and majestic against the cobalt rocks. The funny-looking cacti he once used to destroy the illegal catapult was still there: Elaine wanted to keep it there as a keepsake. Threepwood intended to come in quietly, but the poodles recognized him. They barked joyfully and jumped up and down the lawn, and, like a cherry on the cake, Timmy the monkey sprang out of nowhere, screeching greetings to his master.

 

Just as Threepwood and Morgan let themselves inside, the stained glass door on the top of the stairs opened. Elaine stood there, pale as a ghost. She was wearing a wine-red dress Threepwood had never seen before. The most alarming fact was, however, that she was not surprised to see Morgan LeFlay.

 

As good as a confession.

 

“I heard the dogs,” Elaine said listlessly as she walked down the stairs. “And the monkey.”

 

The freckles that Guybrush had once admired so much started out on her linen-white face. Judging by the look of her, she knew that he knew that she knew.

 

“Elaine?”

 

She didn’t react. As good as a confession...

 

“There’s only one thing I can’t understand,” Threepwood spoke in a sharp, altered voice. “Why did you send Morgan to get my hand, in the first place? Why not order the complete package and get it over with in one go? In one HIT?”

 

Very slowly, Elaine shook her head.

 

“Guybrush,” she breathed, “I never wanted her to sever your hand.”

 

“Yes you did!!” shrieked Morgan at once. “You sent me! You yourself—”

 

“I SENT YOU FOR THE RING!” Elaine bellowed at Morgan, her hands clenching into fists. “I ONLY WANTED THE RING!”

 

“AND DE SINGE WANTED THE HAND!” Morgan yelled back.

 

“WHAT RING?!” Threepwood screamed, losing his temper.

 

“AAAAAAARRRRRGGH!!” roared a deep voice from the other side of the room.

 

Everyone looked back to see LeChuck, clad in wine-red justacorps. Nobody had noticed him come in.

 

“Erm... Pardon,” he murmured in the silence, visibly embarrassed as everyone stared at him. “Just wanted to be part of the conversation.”

 

He approached the three people and stood next to Elaine. It was only then that Guybrush realized their wine-red robes were of the same color and quite possibly the same fabric. They matched.

 

“My ring?!” Threepwood asked, eyeing Elaine incredulously. “Elaine, I’m going mad. What does my ring have to do with anything?!”

 

Elaine bit her lip. She seemed to be hesitating. Then, with a groan of capitulation, she turned to LeChuck and commanded:

 

“Show him.”

 

Completely stunned, Threepwood watched LeChuck reluctantly remove a gold ring from his finger. At the same time, Elaine fidgeted in her pocket and produced a gold ring that looked virtually identical to the former.

 

“I think—” LeFlay said slowly, “I think I’m starting to understand—”

 

Threepwood took the ring that Elaine held out to him. Her hand was cold as ice. She was frightened, or nervous, or both.

 

“Read,” Elaine said compunctiously.

 

The inside of his ring looked exactly as it had been all these years, the engraving reading: “To Guybrush Ulysses Threepwood, my mighty plunderbunny”. As Elaine pushed LeChuck’s ring into his hand, Threepwood read the engraving that plunged him into shock: “To LeChuck, my love, my honeycakes, my schnoobums”.

 

Guybrush looked at Elaine in disbelief. He couldn’t say a word.

 

“Threepwood, my friend,” LeChuck began sympathetically. “Elaine and I have been—”, but Elaine spoke over him:

 

“Guybrush, you have to understand. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. But then who could have known it would go that far—”

 

“What is this??” Threepwood hurled the rings on the floor. Morgan gave a start of surprise.

 

“I gave you the wrong ring,” Elaine said tonelessly. “Each morning—”

 

“It’s not wrong,” LeChuck edged in, “it’s mine!”

 

Elaine rolled her eyes in exasperation.

 

“I ordered a ring for— for him.” Elaine took no notice of the pirate or the huntress, gazing into Threepwood’s eyes. “And by accident, by mistake, I gave it to you. If you hadn’t been forgetting to put it back on in the morning, none of this would have ever happened!” Suddenly, Elaine’s usual intonation was back. “You were already at sea when I found out. So I sent this little idiot to get the ring... Guybrush, I’m really sor—”

 

“You cheating scum!!” Morgan exclaimed. Threepwood heard the sound of metal and turned just in time to see LeFlay approach Elaine, her sword already halfway drawn. He stretched his arm and blocked her way.

 

“Mo, don’t!” he said, pushing her back. “We’re leaving.”

 

Threepwood gazed into his wife’s eyes as if he’d never seen her before.

 

“Elaine,” he said, gathering whatever inner power he had left for the momentum of his words to say something final, irrevocable, and terminal. “You deserve everything that happens to you. Him, especially.” He jerked his head at LeChuck. “My deepest condolences,” he added to his ex-archenemy whom he now almost pitied. LeChuck gave an exaggeratedly polite bow.

 

“Goodbye, Elaine,” Guybrush said in an icy voice. “Come, Morgan. I feel like looting and pillaging an armada or two.”

 

LeChuck watched Threepwood marching out the door and shutting it behind him with a thud, then turned to the two women. Both looked shaken but relieved.

 

“No bloodshed after all, eh? The baby boy’s grown up,” LeChuck spoke mellowly. “I’ll be in me study,” he added to Elaine and left the drawing room.

 

Elaine and Morgan eyed each other for a moment. Then giggled. Then high-fived. And then, hugged.

 

“It worked!” Morgan exclaimed in a whisper. “It ALL worked like a charm, you dirty old plaice!”

 

“Oh ‘Gana!” Elaine rolled her eyes. “You spent half your childhood with me and still haven’t figured out that my plans ALWAYS work?” She smiled at Morgan. “You did great, sis!”

 

“I almost gave us away with my accent! He noticed and I had to—”

 

“MORGANA!” Elaine uttered indignantly. “ ‘Ow many times did I tell ya to watch yer tongue?!”

 

She raised a fist pretending to aim at her.

 

“Thanks, ‘Lain,” Morgan said with a grin. “I gotta run.” And she giggled.

 

As her sister turned to walk away, Elaine hissed in exaggerated severity: “You take good care of him, you snotty shrimp!”

 

Guybrush was a great guy. But the best man on earth was waiting for her in his study... Elaine smiled, watching her sister’s figure getting smaller as she gained distance. Since childhood, they’d been a perfect team: Elaine for the strategy, and Morgana for the action. Later, their lives went separate ways, Morgana detesting the very idea of a governmental career, and Elaine unwilling to openly socialize with a criminal. She never told even Guybrush that she had a sibling.

 

Their current plan was exceedingly elaborate and required artistry as well as skill. Elaine couldn’t just leave Guybrush for LeChuck; he’d either try to win her back or become heartbroken and oblivious of everything around him. Morgana wouldn’t have a chance. But once she’d become his friend and he definitely liked her, the hatred towards Elaine’s “betrayal” would bind them closer together. And of course Guybrush wouldn’t even think of winning back such a “rotten double-crosser” as herself.

 

This is what marks truly good governors, Elaine thought. We search for — and come up with — a solution that would leave everyone better off. The interests of all the four parties were served: her now ex-husband, her wildchild sister, her beloved, and herself.

 

Elaine smiled. SHE was definitely better off. She got the man she adored ever since she saw him in his human self for the first time.

 

She closed the door and picked up the gold rings from the floor. She held Guybrush’s ring in her hand for a second, then threw it in the fireplace. Won’t be needing it anymore.

 

“Chuckie, sweetheart?” Elaine called out. “I’ve got something for you!”

 

 

***

 

Dear Goddess, Morgan thought as she headed for the harbor where she soon saw Threepwood in his bright blue jacket boarding “The Screaming Narwhal”. Dear Goddess, thank you SO much that Guybrush never read a single book in his whole life. If he read the King Arthur legends he’d know that “Elaine” and “Morgana” were faerie sisters. And our dreamer of a mother named us after them. Thank you, dear Goddess, thank you, thank you, thank you!

 

Guybrush saw Morgan in the harbor square and beckoned her on board. She was beaming. The girl was so shamelessly happy to set sail with him. And what’s more, HE was happy to sail away with her. He, Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate, who read ONE book in his whole life: “The A-mfggh-C’s of Ventriloquism”.

 

 

The End

 


End file.
